
? n 



)EN 



/AHRSTCM 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

@]|ap iujt^rig^ !f u* 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



3S2 tje Same ^utjor. 

— ♦— 
FOR A SONG'S SAKE, and Other Stories. With 
a Memoir by William Sharp and a Portrait of Marston. 
One volume, i2mo. 555 pages. Price, ^2.00. 

« 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston, 



GARDEN SECRETS. 




PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
From a Photograph by Van der Weyde, London. 



\ 



Garden Secrets. 



BY 



PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, 

AUTHOR OF "song-tide," " ALL-IN-ALL," ** WIND-VOICES," " FOR 
A song's sake, and other STORIES," ETC. 



By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 



5^ 



It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there 
Beat like a heart among the leaves. 

D. G. ROSSETTI. 



^' OCT 5 : 



BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1887. 



>;> 



<<^% 



Copyright^ 1887^ 
By Louise Chandler Moulton. 



John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



MY GARDEN. 

O my Gardefty full of roses, 
Red as passion and as sweet, 

Failing not when summer closes. 

Lasting on through cold and heat I , 

O my Garden, full of lilies, 

White as peace and very tall. 

In your midst my heart so still is, 
I can hear the least leaf fall ! 

O my Garden, full of singing, 

From the birds that house therein. 

Sweet notes doivn the sweet day ringing. 
Till the nightingales begin I 

O my Garden, where such shade is, 
O my Garden^ bright with sun,^- 

O my loveliest of Ladies, 

Of all gardens sweetest one I 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Philip Bourke Marston: a Sketch .... 9 

The Rose and the Wind 35 

The Dispute 41 

What the Rose saw 45 

The Garden's Loss . , 49 

Before and after Flowering 53 

The Rose's Dream 61 

The Flower and the Hand ^^ 

Garden Fairies 73 

Summer Changes 79 

The Lonely Rose 85 

Wind-Gardens 91 

Roses and the Nightingale 95 

Thy Garden loi 



PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

91 mnti). 



*' Around the vase of Life at your slow pace 
He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, 
And all its sides already understands." 

IT is not alone to the loving partiality 
of friendship that the life of Philip 
Bourke Marston must seem at once one of 
the most tragic and the most interesting of 
the hterary records of the last half of the 
nineteenth century. Seldom, surely, has 
so much genius been wedded to so much 
sorrow; seldom has work so noble been 
achieved under difficulties so great. His 
keen pain was not infrequently his inspira- 
tion, and the chords from which he drew 
his music were heart-strings. What won- 
der that his melodies were oftenest written 
in a minor key? 



lO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

He was born into poetry, one might al- 
most say. Far away back in the EHza- 
bethan days one John Marston was a poet 
and a dramatist, and Dr. Westland Mars- 
ton, the father of our poet, has himself 
written poems of very great beauty, though 
he is more widely known as a dramatist 
than as a poet pure and simple. Dr. Mars- 
ton's first play, " The Patrician's Daugh- 
ter,'' was produced at the Drury Lane 
Theatre, under Macready's management, 
in 1842, its author being at that time only 
twenty-three years of age ; and it has been 
succeeded by many other notable dramatic 
productions. 

Philip's mother was a woman of quiet 
and domestic tastes, who lived in and for 
her husband and her children; but she 
was also a woman of much cultivation, — a 
good critic, a fine linguist, a loving reader 
of the best books, — exactly fitted to be 
the blessing of poet-husband and poet- 
son. His two sisters, Ciceley and Eleanor 
(afterwards the wife of the poet Arthur 
O'Shaughnessy) were both older than him- 



A SKETCH. II 



self; and this one son was the darling of 
the household. 

Philip James Bailey, the author of *' Fes- 
tus/' was his godfather, for whom he was 
in part named; and Miss Muloch, after- 
wards Mrs. Craik, was his godmother. He 
was a beautiful child ; and it was to him, 
in his fascinating babyhood, that Miss 
Muloch addressed her well-known lyric, 
commencing : — 

" Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip, my king, 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's regal dignities." 

Alas for the large brown eyes ! When 
he was three years old he received a blow 
which was, as his father has often told me, 
the cause of his blindness. He was play- 
ing with some other little boys, and his 
eyes were especially sensitive at the time, 
in consequence of belladonna, which had 
been administered as a preventive of scar- 
let fever. The blow, which accidentally hit 
one eye, inflamed it, and that inflammation 
was communicated to the other; and he 



12 PHILIP BOURKE MARS TON: 

soon became what I should have called 
blind, save that he said to me with energy, 
*' No, I was not blind then. I could n't read, 
of course, or see the faces of people, but I 
could see the tree-boughs waving in the 
wind, and I could see the pageant of sun- 
set in the West, and the glimmer of a fire 
upon the hearth ; and oh ! it was such a dif- 
ferent thing from the days that came after- 
wards, when I could not see anything ! " 

How many tales he has told me of his 
darkened, dream-haunted childhood ! He 
began very early to feel the full pain of 
his loss of vision. He fell in love, when 
he was not more than nine or ten years 
old, with a beautiful young lady, and went 
through all a lover's gamut of joys and 
pains; and sometimes the torture of not 
being able to behold the beauty of his 
adored was so extreme that he used to 
dash his head against the wall, in a sudden 
mad longing to be done at once with life 
and sorrow. Yet the love of life was keen 
in him, and his earliest childhood was 
haunted by dreams of future fame which 



A SKETCH. 13 



should make people acknowledge that, 
though blind, his soul yet saw unshared 
visions. 

He could not play with other boys, and 
he listened to wonderful conversations of 
grown men and w^omen instead. He be- 
gan to compose almost before he had left 
off pinafores, and at an incredibly early 
age dictated a three-volume tale, which his 
mother wrote out for him and preserved 
for a long time as a literary curiosity. 
Before he was fourteen the same loving 
hand had written out for him several manu- 
script books of verses, some of them by no 
means destitute of real poetic merit. 

His life was his education. His home 
was the resort of men like Browning, 
Dickens, Thackeray, and all the group of 
intellectual giants of that time ; and every 
day's guests wxre his unconscious teachers. 
He was fourteen, I think, when he first 
met Swinburne, who was just then the idol 
of his boyish worship. At that time — so 
wonderful was his memory — he actually 
knew by heart the whole of the first series 



14 PHILIP BOURKE MARS TON: 

of ''Poems and Ballads/* He was taken to 

visit his demigod, and entered the sacred 

presence with a heart beating almost to 

suffocation; and went home feeling that 

his hopes and dreams had been, for once, 

fulfilled. To the very end of his days 

Swinburne's friendship was a pride and 

joy to him and I have seen scores of 

letters in which the elder poet gave to the 

younger praise so cordial and so earnest 

that one might wear it proudly as a wreath 

of immortelles. Later on he grew to 

know intimately Dante Gabriel Rossetti; 

of whom he has often spoken to me as 

the one man he had ever met for whom 

*' it was possible to feel a devotion as 

romantic and as worshipful as a man feels 

for an adored woman.'* Like Swinburne, 

Rossetti ardently admired and encouraged 

the young poet's genius. To carry to this 

adored friend poems copied in the clear, 

graceful hand of his mother, and to hear 

the elder poet read and comment on them, 

was one of the high delights which helped 

to reconcile the inspired boy to his dark- 



A SKETCH, 15 



ened fate. I have seen Rossetti's numerous 
letters ; and I think one might have courage 
to bear almost any calamity in life, fortified 
by such letters from such a man, — almost 
any calamity ; but not such weight of woes 
as overwhelmed this sad-fated poet, whom, 
as he himself said in one of his strongest 
sonnets, " the gods derided." 

When he was scarcely twenty his mother 
died. Hitherto she had written out all 
his poems, sympathized with his ^ ambi- 
tions, shared his dreams, and been at 
once friend and mother. Her loss was 
the second great and irremediable mis- 
fortune of his life. He mourned for her 
with the passionate intensity characteristic 
of his nature ; but after a brief time there 
seemed to be for him a promise of con- 
solation. He loved and was beloved by 
Miss Mary Nesbit, to whom he became 
engaged. A harrowing but utterly mis- 
taken story has been told of her sudden 
death in the midst of health and without 
any previous warning. The facts were 
quite otherwise. About the time of the 



1 6 PHILIP BOURKE MARS TON: 

betrothal Miss Nesbit developed symp- 
toms of consumption. The disease pro- 
gressed very rapidly for three months; 
but the end was neither unforeseen nor 
especially sudden. The blow which thus 
shattered the young poet's hopes of a 
shared future and a happy domesticity 
to console him for his darkened life was 
heavy indeed. Previously to this loss — 
in 1 87 1 — Marston's first volume, *' Song- 
Tide, and Other Poems," had appeared, 
and had met with a marked success. The 
group of sonnets called '' Song-Tide " were 
those in which, like Petrarch, he had 
chanted his lady's praises; and he was 
able to give to his betrothed, before her 
death, the first copy of this Book of Love. 
Just then — while there was still hope that 
she might live — just then, if ever, was 
the tide of Marston's life at the full. Poets 
and critics alike praised his work. I have 
seen letters on letters of praise from Swin- 
burne and Rossetti, and in one of them 
the latter wrote : '' Only yesterday evening 
I was reading your ' Garden Secrets ' to 



A SKETCH, 17 



William Bell Scott, who fully agreed with 
me that it is not too much to say of them 
that they are worthy of Shakspeare in his 
subtlest lyrical moods." On this height 
of achievement and of joy stood Philip 
Bourke Marston at twenty-one. He was 
reckoned by the masters of song as among 
their high kindred ; readers were clamor- 
ing for a second edition of his book ; the 
girl to w^hom he had given his young love 
had not shrunk from clasping hands with 
him in his darkness. But still '* the gods 
derided him." 

In November, 1871, his betrothed died; 
and then the last flickering flame of light 
went out from his sad eyes. Was it that 
so many tears had quenched it? Ciceley, 
w^ho loved him as sisters seldom love, gave 
herself to his service in that hour of his 
supreme need even more completely than 
his mother had done. She wrote for him, 
read to him, lived in and for him. She 
had decided literary gifts of her own; 
but she devoted herself so wholly to her 
brother that she sought no theatre for 



1 8 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

their display, and published only two sto- 
ries. From the time of their mother's 
death Philip and Ciceley lived together in 
London, save when they went away for 
some pleasant outing, — usually to France, 
but once to Italy, the ^* woman-country/* 
the dream-land of poets, the home of art, 
Eight years afterwards Philip wrote, — 

" Oh, how fleet, 
How fair with dreams accomplished, heavenly sweet, 
Was that our sovereign month in Italy ! " 

To breathe Italian air, to stand in Dante's 
Florence, to drift in gondolas at Venice 
between ancient palaces that seemed to 
sleep and dream above tideless waters, — it 
all touched his imagination quite as keenly 
as if his eyes had seen it. With some 
subtler vision than ours, he beheld this 
beauty that was as the beauty of a dream. 
Those golden weeks were a memory of 
joy which seemed never to lose its fresh 
zest for all the rest of his life. 

In 1872 Marston formed a close intimacy 
with Oliver Madox Brown, son of the well- 
known artist Ford Madox Brown, and 



A SKETCH. 19 



himself a painter of promise and an author 
already of noble and memorable perform- 
ance, though he died before he was twenty. 
How often I have heard Marston speak of 
him as his friend of friends, whose like 
could never come again. In 1874 this 
gifted genius and charming and beloved 
young man died, in his turn, after a brief 
illness ; and again those blind eyes burned 
with the hopeless tears which mourn the 
dead. 

Before young Brown died, Marston had 
prepared for the press his second volume 
of poems, ** AU-in-All." This, with the 
exception of one poem to his sister, was 
the poetic record of his grief for his dead 
sweetheart. It was too uniformly sad and 
too monotonous in theme to achieve so 
speedy a success as '* Song-Tide" had se- 
cured ; but it contained some of its author's 
most noble and stately poems. It was very 
soon after the publication of '' All-in-AU" in 
1 874 that '' Scribner's Monthly " (now '' The 
Century") printed the first of Marston's 
numerous contributions to the American 



20 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

Press. As he wrote so much for America 
and had so many American friends, he 
used to keep the American flag in his 
room, and playfully to declare himself *' a 
natural American citizen." 

Among the American friends whom he 
devotedly loved were Mrs. Laura Curtis 
Bullard, — whose tender helpfulness and 
subtle comprehension of his moods espe- 
cially endeared her to him, — the Southern 
poet Paul Hamilton Hayne, who was for 
years his constant correspondent, and E. C. 
Stedman, whom he warmly appreciated 
both as poet and as critic. Among his 
other American friends were Whittier, — 
who had written to and of him in the most 
cordial manner, — Mrs. Margaret J. Pres- 
ton, Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt, Richard Watson 
Gilder, and Mrs. Z. B. Gustafson. 

It was in the summer of 1876 that rpy 
own friendship with him began. I met 
him first on the first day of that year's 
July. It was at a sort of authors' night at 
a well-known London house; and I knew 
that the blind poet would be among the 



A SKETCH. 21 



guests, — the one, indeed, whom I most 
desired to meet, as I had previously been 
much interested in his poems. 

I soon perceived him, standing beside 
his sister Ciceley, — a sh'ght, rather tall man 
of twenty-six, very young looking even 
for his age. He had a wonderfully fine 
brow. His brown eyes were still beautiful 
in shape and color. His dark-brown hair 
and beard had glints of chestnut, and all 
his coloring w^as rich and warm. His was 
a singularly refined face, with a beautiful 
expression when in repose; keenly sensi- 
tive, but with full, pleasure-loving lips, that 
made one understand how hard his limita- 
tions must be for him to whom beauty and 
pleasure were so dear. At that time the 
color came and went in his cheeks as in 
those of a sensitive girl. His sister soon 
grew to be my intimate friend ; and I knew 
the whole family so well that Philip's past 
life became as familiar to me as it could be 
to any one who had not shared it. His 
companionship was a revelation to me of 
the possible completeness of intellectual 



22 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

sympathy. In reading to him I can scarcely 
recall a time when our tastes or judgments 
differed. If I said, '' How beautiful that 
is ! " he would answer : '* Yes, I was waiting 
for you to say that/' One could hardly 
hope to meet twice in a lifetime such 
kinship of the spirit 

I had known him and his sister but a 
few days more than two years, when, on 
July 28, 1878, Ciceley called upon me at 
my rooms. Dr. Marston and Philip were 
away in France, and she spoke of them 
very tenderly that morning. She com- 
plained, when she came in, of an intense 
headache ; and after a little while I made 
her lie down, to see what rest would do 
for her. She grew worse; and when the 
doctor came, he pronounced her illness 
apoplexy. My name was the last word 
on her faithful lips; and in the mid-after- 
noon of that long July day she died. Quite 
unaware of her death, — since we did not 
know where to find them with a telegram, — 
and while she was still awaiting burial, 
her father and brother returned. On this 



A SKETCH. 23 



crushing sorrow I cannot linger; its full 
bitterness I shared. I think it was the 
cruellest bereavement that had ever come 
to our Doet. When his mother, his be- 
trothed, and his friend died, he still — as 
he used often to say — had Ciceley; but 
when she left him there remained for him 
no such constant and consoling presence. 
His other sister was married, and therefore 
was not in his daily life at all ; and at that 
time, even, she herself was a chronic in- 
valid. His father was his one closest tie : 
but many sorrows had saddened Dr. Mars- 
ton and broken his health ; and there was 
no one to be to Philip what Ciceley had 
been as reader, amanuensis, and constant, 
untiring companion. It was the year be- 
fore Ciceley's death, 1877, in which, to 
gratify a whim of mine, the well-known 
novelist R. E. Francillon cast Philip's horo- 
scope. Mr. Francillon is a loving stu- 
dent of all mystic lore,- and has studied 
astrology, by w^ay of amusing himself, 
until he has become a thorough proficient 
in its mysteries. As a sort of test of the 



24 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

clear-seeing of the stars, I persuaded him 
to cast and carefully to write out the 
horoscope of the blind poet; and in this 
manuscript — which I still have in my pos- 
session — he prophesied, several times over, 
the death of its subject in 1887. One 
never believes in such prophecies until 
after their fulfilment; but I look back 
now to see with wonder how many pre- 
dictions even besides this final one that 
horoscope contained, and how strangely 
they have been fulfilled. 

After the loss of his sister, Marston en- 
larged the circle of his intimate friends. 
He became devotedly attached to the 
young poets Mary Robinson, William 
Sharp, and Herbert Clarke. Mr. Church- 
ill Osborne, of Salisbury, was another com- 
paratively recent but very dear friend. 
Iza Duff'us Hardy had been the tender, 
helpful, sister-like friend of all his life. 
Theodore Watts, the beloved friend of 
Rossetti and of Swinburne, — himself poet, 
critic, and romancer, — has written most 
tenderly of the dead poet in '' The Athe- 



^A SKETCH. 25 



naeiim." These and many others clung 
to PhiHp devotedly until the last; and the 
world out of which he has gone will never 
be quite the same again for these his 
friends. In 1883 Marston published his 
latest volume of poems, entitled '* Wind- 
Voices.'' It was an immediate success. 
Roberts Brothers, of Boston, sold every 
copy of the edition they imported, and 
the London publishers sold every copy 
they had retained, — the last of them at a 
considerable premium ; ' for, unfortunately, 
the book was not stereotyped, and was 
soon out of print on both sides of the At- 
lantic. Since its publication the author's 
strength of body has seemed, year by 
year, to decline. He told me many times 
how brief he felt would be his remaining 
days ; but I could never believe it, for he 
seemed, after all, too full of life to die. 
How gay he was, when he had anybody 
with whom to make merry, how full of 
wit and fun and laughter ! I felt that 
he must go on living; and yet, knowing 
how sad was his heart down under the 



26 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

laughter, I was not surprised by this pass- 
age in one of his letters : ■ * You will miss 
me, perhaps, when I am gone, but you 
must not mourn for me. I think few 
lives have been so deeply sad as mine, 
though I do not forget those who have 
blessed it/* 

During the August of 1886 he had a 
serious attack of illness, — something of 
the nature of brain-fever; and one of his 
delusions was, that outside his window in 
Brighton, where he was staying with his 
father — out of this window, which looked 
upon a stone-paved yard, he could see an 
ocean stretching broad and blue, and on it 
ships, with great white sails set, going al- 
ways to America. He had longed much to 
come here, and had always felt sure that he 
would come some day. So when his dis- 
ordered brain had visions of these white- 
winged ships sailing where he longed to 
go, he used to smile in his pain and his 
weakness, and say they would stop for him 
soon. Ah ! what other ship has stopped 
for him since then, and over what un- 



A SKETCH, 27 



known sea, to what far port, has he been 
borne? 

I saw him after this illness, at the end 
of September. He was much changed 
from his old self, and his once fine 
memory had greatly failed. He remem- 
bered every incident of eight or ten years 
ago with an almost photographic minute- 
ness, and recurred to long-past conversa- 
tions and old jests; but he forgot the 
events of yesterday, the appointments of 
to-morrow. " I am horribly broken up by 
that illness," he used to say to me, '' and I 
don't know why I should want to live ; but 
I dread that mystery beyond. If I only 
knew!'' Still, I did not once think that he 
would die. All through the winter of 1886- 
1887 his letters were unutterably sad, and 
very much briefer than usual, because — 
as he was always saying — he felt too weak 
to sit up at his type-writer. Sometimes he 
would write: ^*I hope you will be coming 
soon, else I shall never see you again." 
And once he wrote: "I feel that I said my 
last good-by to you that 4th of October 



28 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

when we parted at the Euston Station. I 
shall be gone — somewhere — before you 
come again. The stony streets will be 
here, and the bells that drive me mad will 
ring ; but / shall be gone. You will miss 
me sometimes, I think, you and a few 
others; and perhaps people will be sorry 
when they remember how dark and lonely 
was the life I lived here.** That passage 
was in one of his mid-winter letters; .and 
he wrote similar ones again and again. 
How they come back to me now, — vain 
cries out of the dark ! At the time I 
thought them only the expression of a 
transient weakness, and looked tranquilly 
forward to finding him better in the spring. 
'* If I could only sleep," he wrote, in letter 
after letter ; ** I try everything, but rest 
will not come. Is there anything in all 
the world so good as sleep?*' And now 
** sleep wraps him round.** 

Alas, how bitterly we who loved him 
know that we shall never see his like 
again ! As his friend Clarke wrote of him : 
'*He had a positive genius for friendship. 



A SKETCH, 29 



and drew together all sorts and conditions 
of men, who would never have otherwise 
met, and who could have agreed on no 
single subject except their attachment to 
him." 

His friend William Sharp, who has 
edited since his death a collection of his 
tales, speaks of him, in the Memoir which 
prefaces that volume, as ** possessed of 
an occult, magnetic quality of attraction 
which few people could resist. Wherever 
he went he made would-be friends, and 
without any apparent effort to please he 
seemed to exercise a pleasant fascination 
over all who came in contact with him; 
and down to his last days he was in com- 
pany cheerful and animated, often merry, 
and always genial." 

And his friend Osborne wrote to me of 
him in a private letter: ** He had the 
most potent personality and the strongest 
power of fascination I have ever met with 
in any man." 

The leading daily and weekly London 
papers have sounded his praises over the 
grave where what was mortal of him lies 



30 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON: 

deaf to all words of ours. Sonnets and 
poems — at least a score of them — have 
been written to his beloved memory; his 
portrait has been engraved for the Lon- 
don *' Graphic " and the ** Illustrated Lon- 
don News ; '' notes of loving sympathy 
have poured in on the father, sole sur- 
vivor of all his household, who sits alone 
in his bereavement and desolation. But he 
whom so many loved, whom so many now 
conspire to honor, he has gone on beyond 
our ken, and is wiser than we all. 

It was the last of January when he ex- 
perienced what seemed like a slight shock 
of paralysis. The first of February he 
telegraphed to his friend Herbert Clarke 
to come to him, for he was very ill. Clarke 
went, and found him able to speak only 
with the greatest difficulty; but he man- 
aged to say that he wanted to live, and 
hoped he should get better. After that 
day until his death he never spoke at all. 
His father wrote me that sometimes his 
vain attempts to make himself understood 
were agonizing. But at other times he 
would be quiet, and seem to understand 



A SKETCH, 31 



all that was said to him ; and when absent 
friends were spoken of, a sweet and tender 
smile would flicker round his speechless 
lips. He hardly seemed to grow w^orse at 
all during the last week. Indeed, on Sun- 
day, February 13, there was more hope 
for him than at any time after he was 
seized with his fatal illness. But — to quote 
his father's w^ords in a letter to me — '' On 
Monday morning, at about 9.45, he alarmed 
the nurse by a slight palpitation, gave one 
or two sighs, and was gone. He almost 
slept into eternity." On Friday, Feb. 18, 
1887, he was buried in Highgate Cemetery. 
Miss Hardy writes : '' I saw his face just 
before the coffin-lid closed on it. The 
seal of peace was there. It was a calm 
more utter than that of sleep, — marble- 
still, serene." Another friend writes : 
*' Philip looked wonderfully transfigured 
and most beautiful, his dark hair and beard 
contrasting with the pure pallor of his face 
— that peaceful face ! " A cruel sleet was 
falling when they laid him under the damp 
sods at Highgate. His coffin was heaped 
with loving tributes of flowers from many 



32 PHILIP BOURKE MARS TON, 

a friend, and two white camellias were 
laid, inside, upon his heart. Bitter tears 
fell for him — and fall still ; for he was not 
of those who die and are forgotten. 

The world will not let his work die out 
of remembrance, or cease to be grateful 
for the rich gifts his too-short life be- 
queathed; but we, to whom he was per- 
sonally so dear, what can the world's 
praise of him do towards comforting our 
sorrow? The very house he lived and 
died in must be haunted, it seems to me, 
forever by his pain; and as he himself 
wrote : — 

*' Must this not be, that one then dwelling here, 
Where one man and his sorrows dwelt so long, 
Shall feel the pressure of a ghostly throng, 

And shall upon some desolate midnight hear 
A sound more sad than is the pine-tree's song, 

And thrill with great, inexplicable fear ? " 

Yes, it nmst count for something that 
these long woes are over, and that some- 
where, *' beyond these voices, there is 
Peace/' 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 



d^artien ^ectetjs. 



THE ROSE AND THE WIND. 



THE ROSE AND THE WIND. 



DAWN. 

THE ROSE. 

WHEN, think you, comes the Wind, 
The Wind that kisses me and is so kind ? 
Lo, how the Lily sleeps 1 her sleep is light. 
Would I were like the Lily, pale and white ! 
Will the Wind come ? 

THE BEECH. 

Perchance for thee too soon. 

THE ROSE. 

If not, how could I live until the noon ? 

What think you, Beech-tree, makes the Wind 

delay ? 
Why comes he not at breaking of the day ? 



36 GARDEN SECRETS. 

THE BEECH. 

Hush, child ! and, like the Lily, go to sleep. 

THE ROSE. 

You know I cannot. 

THE BEECH. 

Nay, then, do not weep. 
\After a pause^ 

Thy lover comes ; be happy, now, O Rose ! 
He softly through my bending branches goes. 
Soon he shall come, and thou shalt feel his kiss. 

THE ROSE. 

Already my flushed heart grows faint with bliss. 
Love, I have longed for you through all the night. 

THE WIND. 

And I to kiss your petals warm and bright. 

THE ROSE. 

Laugh round me, Love, and kiss me ; it is well. 
Nay, have no fear ; the Lily will not tell. 



THE ROSE AND THE WIND. 3/ 

MORNING. 

THE ROSE. 

T was dawn when first you came ; and now the 

sun 
Shines brightly, and the dews of dawn are done. 
'T is well you take me so in your embrace, 
But lay me back again into my place ; 
For I am worn, perhaps with bliss extreme. 

THE WIND. 

Nay, you must wake, Love, from this childish 
dream. 

THE ROSE. 

T is you. Love, who seem changed j your laugh 

is loud. 
And 'neath your stormy kiss my head is bowed. 
O Love, O Wind, a space will not you spare ? 

THE WIND. 

Not while your petals are so soft and fair. 

THE ROSE. 

My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot see ; 
O Love, O Wind, wilt thou not pity me ? 



38 GARDEN SECRETS, 



EVENING. 



THE BEECH. 



O Wind ! a word with you before you pass : 
What did you to the Rose, that on the grass 
Broken she lies, and pale, who loved you so ? 

THE WIND. 

Roses must live and love, and winds must blow. 



THE DISPUTE. 



I 



THE DISPUTE. 

THE GRASS. 

FELT upon me, as she passed, her feet. 



THE BEECH. 

'Neath my green shade she sheltered in the heat. 

A ROSE. 

She plucked me as she passed, and in her breast 
Wore me, and I was to her beauty prest. 

THE WIND. 

And now ye He neglected, withering fast ; 
And the Grass withers too ; and when have past 
These golden summer days, O Beech, no more 
She '11 sit beneath thy shade. But I endure, 
To kiss her when I will. So, more than ye, 
Am I made blest in my felicity. 



WHAT THE ROSE SAW. 



o 



WHAT THE ROSE SAW. 

THE ROSE. 

LILY sweet ! I saw a pleasant sight. 



THE LILY, 

Where saw you it, and when ? 

THE ROSE. 

Here, when the Night 
Lay calmly over all and covered us, 
And no wind blew, however tremulous, 
I heard afar the light fall of her feet, 
And murmur of her raiment soft and sweet. 

THE LILY. 

What said she to thee when she came anear ? 

THE ROSE. 

No word ; but o'er me bent till I could hear 
The beating of her heart, and feel her blood 



46 



GARDEN SECRETS. 



Swell to a blossom that which was a bud. 
Alas ! I have no words to tell the bliss 
When on my trembling petals fell her kiss ; 
Sweeter than soft rain falling after heat, 
Or dew at dawn, was that kiss, soft and sweet. 
Then fell another shadow on the ground. 
And for a little space there was no sound. 
I knew who stood beside her, saw his face 
Shining and happy in that happy place ; 
I knew not what they said ; but this I know, 
They kissed and passed : where think you they 
did go ? 



THE GARDEN'S LOSS. 



THE GARDEN'S LOSS. 

A LILY. 

T TE will not speak to us again ; 
•*- -*- No more the sudden summer rain 
Will fall from off his trembhng leaves : 
Even the scentless Tulip grieves. 
Ah me ! the loud noise of that night, 
And that fierce blaze of blinding light 
That slew him in the midst of bliss — 
Reach out, O Rose ! and let us kiss. 

THE ROSE. 

He was a friend to all indeed ; 
Even the wild, unlovely Weed 
Loved him and clove unto his root : 
When next winds blow he shall be mute. 

THE LILY. 

He was the noblest of all trees. 

A TULIP. 

Your sorrow cannot bring you ease. 



50 GARDEN SECRETS, 

THE LILY. 

Still we must mourn so great a one. 

THE ROSE. 

I would the summer-time were done ! 
The birds we loved sang in his boughs, 
And in his branches made their house. 
All graciously he bowed and swayed ; 
And when of winds we were afraid, 
How tenderly his boughs he moved, — 
A loving tree, and well beloved. 

AN ELM. 

He was a noble tree and vast ; 

His branches revelled in the blast : 

I always took him for our king. 

Yet better that he was so slain, 

In midst of his loved wind and rain. 

Than some sharp axe should lay him low. 

THE ROSE. 

Better ! But now I only know 
He shall not speak again to me — 
Nor, Lily, shall he speak to thee. 



BEFORE AND AFTER FLOWERING. 



BEFORE AND AFTER FLOWERING. 
BEFORE. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

T O, here how warm and dark and still it is ! 
-■— ' Sister, lean close to me, that we may kiss. 
Here we go rising, rising ; but to where ? 

SECOND VIOLET. 

Indeed I cannot tell, nor do I care, 

It is so warm and pleasant here. But hark ! 

What strangest sound was that above the dark? 

FIRST VIOLET. 

As if our sisters all together sang, — 
Seemed it not so ? 

SECOND VIOLET. 

More loud than that it rang ; 
And louder still it rings, and seems more near. 



54 GARDEN SECRETS. 

Oh, I am shaken through and through with fear ! 
Now in some deadly grip I seem confined ! — 
Farewell, my sister ! Rise and follow and find. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

From how far off those last words seemed to 

fall! 
Gone where she will not answer when I call ! 
How lost ? How gone ? Alas ! this sound above 

me : 
" Poor little Violet, left with none to love thee ! " 
And now it seems I break against that sound ! 
What bitter pain is this that binds me round ? 
This pain I press into ? Where have I come ? 

AFTER. 

A CROCUS. 

Welcome, dear sisters, to our fairy home ! 
They call this Garden, and the time is Spring. 
Like you, I have felt the pain of flowering ; 
But oh ! the wonder and the deep delight 
It was to stand here, in the broad sunlight, 
And feel the wind flow round me cool and kind ; 
To hear the singing of the leaves the wind 
Goes hurrying through ; to see the mighty trees, 
Where every day the blossoming buds increase ! 



BEFORE AND AFTER FLOWERING. 5$ 

At evening, when the shining sun goes in, 
The gentler lights we see, and dews begin, 
And all is still beneath the quiet sky, 
Save sometimes for the wind's low lullaby. 

FIRST TREE. 

Poor little flowers ! 

SECOND TREE. 

What would you prate of now ? 

FIRST TREE. 

They have not heard ; I will keep still. Speak 
low. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

The trees bend to each other lovingly. 

CROCUS. 

Daily they talk of fairer things to be. 
Great talk they make about the coming Rose, 
The very fairest flower, they say, that blows, 
Such scent she hath; her leaves are red, they 

say. 
And fold her round in some divine, sweet way. 



56 GARDEN SECRETS, 

FIRST VIOLET. 

Would she were come, that for ourselves we 

might 
Have pleasure in this wonder of delight ! 

CROCUS. 

Here comes the laughing, dancing, hurrying rain : 
How all the trees laugh at the wind's light strain ! 

FIRST VIOLET. 

We are so near the earth, the wind goes by 
And hurts us not ; but if we stood up high, 
Like trees, then should we soon be blown away. 

SECOND VIOLET. 

Nay ; were it so, we should be strong as they. 

CROCUS. 

I often think how nice to be a tree ; 

Why, sometimes in their boughs the stars I see. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

Have you seen that ? 

CROCUS. 

I have, and so shall you. 
But hush ! I feel the coming of the dew. 



BEFORE AND AFTER FLOWERING. 57 

NIGHT. 
SECOND VIOLET. 

How bright it is ! the trees how still they are ! 

CROCUS. 

I never saw before so bright a star 

As that which stands and shines just over us. 

FIRST VIOLET {after a pause) , 
My leaves feel strange and very tremulous. 

CROCUS AND SECOND VIOLET TOGETHER. 

And mine, and mine ! 

FIRST VIOLET. 

O, warm, kind Sun, appear ! 

CROCUS. 

I would the stars were gone, and day were here ! 
JUST BEFORE DAWN. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

Sisters ! No answer, sisters ? Why so still ? 



58 GARDEN SECRETS, 

ONE TREE TO ANOTHER. 

Poor little Violet, calling through the chill 
Of this new frost which did her sister slay, 
In which she must herself, too, pass away ! 
Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed ; 
Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid. 

FIRST VIOLET. 

No pleasant Wind about the garden goes, — 
Perchance the Wind has gone to bring the Rose. 

sisters ! surely now your sleep is done. 

1 would we had not looked upon the sun. 
My leaves are stiff with pain. O cruel night ! 
And through my root some sharp thing seems to 

bite. 
Ah me ! what pain, what coming change is this? 

{She dies,) 
FIRST TREE. 

So endeth many a Violet's dream of bliss. 



THE ROSE'S DREAM. 



THE ROSE'S DREAM. 



/^ SISTERS ! when last night so well you slept, 
^^ I could not sleep ; but through the silent 

air 
I looked upon the white moon, shining where 
No scent of any rose can reach, I know. 
And as I looked adown the path there crept 
A little trembling, restless Wind, and lo ! 
As near it came, I said : " O little Breeze 
That hast no strength wherewith to stir the trees ! 
What dost thou in this place? " It only sighed, 
And paused a little ere it thus replied : — 

II. 

*^ I am the Wind that comes before the rain 
Which, even now, bears onward from the west, — 
The rain that is as sweet to you as rest. 
When all the air about the day lies dead. 
And the incessant sunlight grows a pain. 
Then by the cool rain are you comforted 



62 ' GARDEN SECRETS, 

happy Rose, that shall not live to see 
This summer garden altered utterly, 

You know not of the days of snow and ice, 
Nor know the look of wild and wintry skies.^* 

m. 

Then passed the Wind ; but left me very sad, 
For I began to think of days to come, 
Wherein the sun should fail and birds grow dumb, 
And how this garden then should look, indeed. 
And as I thought of all, such fear I had 

1 cried to you, asleep, though none would heed. 
And so I wept, though none might see me weep, 
Till came the Wind again, and bade me sleep. 
And sang me such a small, sweet song that soon 
I fell asleep while looking on the moon. 

rv. 

And as I slept I dreamed a fearful dream. 
It seemed to me that I was standing here : 
The sky was sunless, and I saw anear 
All you, my sisters, lying dead and crushed. 
I could not hear the music of the stream 
That runs hard by, when suddenly there rushed 
A giant Wind adown the garden walk, 
And all the great old Trees began to talk 



THE ROSE'S DREAM. 63 

And cried : ^' What does the Rose here ? Bid her 

go, 
Lest buried she should be in coming snow." 



I strove to move away, but all in vain ; 
And, flying, as it passed me cried the Wind : 
" O foolish little Rose, and art thou blind ? 
Dost thou not see the snow is coming fast?" 
And all the swaying Trees cried out again : 
" O foolish Rose, to tarry till the last ! " 
Then came a sudden whirl, a mighty noise, 
As every tree that lives had found a voice ; 
And I was borne away, and lifted high 
As birds that dart in summer through the sky. 

VI. 

And then the great Wind fell away ; and so 

I felt that I was whirling down and down, 

Past Trees that strove, with branches bare and 

brown. 
To catch me as I fell ; and all they cried : 
" She must be buried in the cold deep snow j 
Ah, would she had like other roses died ! " 
Then, as I thought to drop, I woke to find 
The cool rain falling on me, and the Wind 



64 GARDEN SECRETS. 

Singing a rainy song among the trees, 
Wherein the birds were building at their ease. 

VII. 
FIRST FLOWER. 

A fearful dream indeed, and such an one 
As well may make you sad for days to come. 

SECOND FLOWER. 

A sad, strange dream ! 

THE ROSE. 

Why is the Lily dumb ! 

THE LILY. 

Too sad the dream for me to speak about ! 

THE ROSE. 

I fear this night the setting of the sun. 

A TREE. 

Nay, when the sun goes in, the stars come out. 
You shall not dream, Rose, such a dream again ; 
Forget it now in listening to the rain. 

THE ROSE. 

I would the Wind had never talked to me 
Of things that I shall never live to see ! 



THE FLOWER AND THE HAND. 



THE FLOWER AND THE HAND. 
I. 

JUST AFTER NIGHTFALL. 

T HEARD a whisper of Roses, 

-*- And light white LiHes laugh out : 

" Ah ! sweet when the evening closes, 

And stars come looking about ; 
How cool and good it is to stand, 
Nor fear at all the gathering hand ! " 

n. 

" Would I were red ! '^ cried a White Rose. 

" Would I were white ! " cried a Red one ; 
" No longer the light Wind blows. 

He went with the dear, dead Sun. 
Here we forever seem to stay ; 
And yet a Sun dies every day.'* 



68 GARDEN SECRETS, 

m. 

A LILY. 

^^ The Sun is not dead, but sleeping, 
And each day the same Sun wakes ; 

But when Stars their watch are keeping, 
Then a time of rest he takes." 

MANY ROSES TOGETHER. 

" How very wise these Lilies are ! 

They must have heard Sun talk with Star ! " 

IV. 

FIRST ROSE. 

" Pray, then, can you tell us, Lilies, 
Where slumbers the Wind at night, 

When the Garden all round so still is, 
And brimmed with the Moon's pale light ! " 

A LILY. 

" In branches of great trees he rests." 

SECOND ROSE. 

" Not so ; they are too full of nests." 



THE FLOWER AND THE HAND. 69 



V. 

FIRST ROSE. 



" / think he sleeps where the grass is ; 

He there would have room to He. 
The white Moon over him passes ; 

He wakes with the dawning Sky/' 



MANY LILIES TOGETHER. 

" How very wise these Roses seem, 
Who think they know, and only dream ! " 



VI. 
FIRST ROSE. 

"What haps to a gathered flower? " 

SECOND ROSE. 

*^Nay, sister, now who can tell? 
Not one comes back for an hour 

To say it is ill or well. 
I would with such an one confer, 
To know what strange things chanced to her." 



yo GARDEN SECRETS. 

vn. 

FIRST ROSE. 

^' Hush ! hush ! now the Wind is waking — 

Or is it the Wind I hear? 
My leaves are thrilling and shaking — 

Good-by ; I am gathered, my dear ! 
Now, whether for my bliss or woe, 
I shall know what the plucked flowers know ! ^' 



GARDEN FAIRIES. 



GARDEN FAIRIES. 

TV^EEN was the air, the sky was very light, 
■*- ^ Soft with shed snow my garden was, and 

white ; 
And walking there, I heard upon the night 

Sudden sound of httle voices, — 

Just the prettiest of noises. 

It was the strangest, subtlest, sweetest sound ; 
It seemed above me, seemed upon the ground, 
Then swiftly seemed to eddy round and round ; 
Till I said : " To-night the air is 
Surely full of garden fairies." 

And all at once it seemed I grew aware 
That little shining presences were there, 
White shapes and red shapes danced upon the 
air; 

Then a peal of silver laughter ; 

And such singing followed after 



74 GARDEN SECRETS, 

As none of you, I think, have ever heard. 
More soft it was than note of any bird, — 
Note after note, most exquisitely deferred, 
Soft as dew-drops when they settle 
In a fair flower's open petal. 



"What are these fairies? " to myself I said ; 
For answer, then, as from a garden's bed, 
On the cold air, a sudden scent was shed, — 
Scent of lilies, scent of roses. 
Scent of Summer's sweetest posies. 



And said a small sweet voice within my ear : 

" We flowers that sleep through winter, once a 

year 
Are by our flower queen let to visit here, 

That this fact may duly flout us, — 
Gardens can look fair without us. 



" A very little time we have to play ; 
Then must we go, oh ! very far away, 
And sleep again for many a long, long day, 
Till the glad birds sing above us, 
And the warm Sun comes to love us. 



GARDEN FAIRIES. 75 

^' Hark what the roses sing; now, as we go ! " 
Then very sweet and soft, and very low, — 
A dream of sound across the garden snow, — 
Came the sound of Roses singing 
To the Lily-bell's faint ringing, 

roses' song. 

" Softly sinking through the snow, 
To our winter rest we go ; 
Underneath the snow to house 
Till the birds be in the boughs. 
And the boughs with leaves be fair. 
And the sun shine everywhere. 
Softly through the snow we settle. 
Little Snowdrops press each petal. 
Oh ! the snow is kind and white. 
Soft it is, and very light ; 
Soon we shall be where no light is, 
But where sleep is, and where night is, — 
Sleep of every wind unshaken 
Till our summer bids us waken." 

Then toward some far-off goal that singing drew, 
Then altogether ceased ; more steely blue 
The blue stars shone ; but in my spirit grew 
Hope of summer, love of roses. 
Certainty that sorrow closes. 



■1 



i, 



SUMMER CHANGES. 



SUMMER CHANGES. 

O ANG the Lily and sang the Rose 

^^ Out of the heart of my garden close : 

^'O joy, O joy of the summer tide ! " 
Sang the Wind, as it moved above them : 
" Roses were sent for the Sun to love them, 

Dear little buds, in the leaves that hide ! " 

Sang the Trees, as they rustled together : 
'^ O the joy of the summer weather ! 

Roses and Lilies, how do you fare? " 
Sang the Red Rose, and sang the White : 
^^ Glad we are of the sun's large light, 

And the songs of the birds that dart through 
the air." 

Lily and Rose and tall green Tree, 
Swaying boughs where the bright birds be. 
Thrilled by music and thrilled by wings, 



8o GARDEN SECRETS. 

How glad they were on that summer day ! 
Little they recked of cold skies and gray, 

Or the dreary dirge that a Storm-Wind sings ! 



Golden butterflies gleam in the sun, 
Laugh with the flowers, and kiss each one ; 

And great bees come, with their sleepy tune, 
To sip their honey and circle round ; 
And the flowers are lulled by that drowsy sound, 

And fall asleep in the heart of the noon. 



A small white cloud in a sky of blue : 
Roses and Lilies, what will they do ? 

For a wind springs up and sings in the trees. 
Down comes the rain ; the garden's awake : 
Roses and Lilies begin to quake, 

That were rocked to sleep by the gentle breeze. 



Ah, Roses and Lilies ! Each delicate petal 
The wind and the rain with fear unsettle — 

This way and that way the tall trees sway ; 
But the wind goes by, and the rain stops soon, 
And smiles again the face of the noon, 

And the flowers grow glad in the sun's warm ray 



SUMMER CHANGES, 8 1 

Sing, my Lilies, and sing my Roses, 

With never a dream that the summer closes. 

But the Trees are old ; and I fancy they tell, 
Each unto each, how the summer flies : 
They remember the last year's wintry skies ; 

But that summer returns the Trees know well. 



THE LONELY ROSE. 



/ 



THE LONELY ROSE. 

^IT^O a heaven far away 
-■- Went the Red Rose when she died.*' 
So I heard the White Rose say, 
As she swayed from side to side 
In the chill October blast. 
In the garden leaves fall fast ; 
This of roses is the last : 

Said the White Rose : '^ O my Red Rose ! 

O my Rose so fair to see ! 
When, like thee, I am a dead rose, 
Shall /in that heaven be ? " 
Oh, the dread October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast ; 
This of roses is the last. 

^^ From that heavenly place, last night. 
To me in a dream she came, 



86 GARDEN SECRETS, \ 

\ 
Stood there in the pale moonlight ; \ 

And she seemed, my Rose, the same." \ 

Oh, the bleak October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast ; 
This of roses is the last. 



^Only it may be, perchance. 

That her leaves were redder grown, 
And they seemed to thrill and dance. 
As by gentler breezes blown." 
Oh, the sad October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast ; 
This of roses is the last. 



" And she told me, sweetly singing, 
Of that heavenly place afar. 
Where the air with song is ringing. 
Where the souls of blossoms are.'* 
Hark, the wild October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast ; 
This of roses is the last. 



" And she bade me not to fail her. 
Nor to lose my heart for fear, 



THE LONELY ROSE. 8/ 

When I saw the skies turn paler 
With the sickness of the year, — 
/should be beyond the blast, 
And the dead leaves falling fast, 
In that heavenly place at last." 



WIND-GARDENS. 



WIND-GARDENS. 

T\ yriDWAY between earth and sky, 
-*-^-*- There the wild wind-gardens lie, - 
Tossing gardens, secret bowers, 
Full of songs and full of flowers, 
Wafting down to us below 
Such a fragrance as we know 
Never yet had lily or rose 
That our fairest garden knows. 

Oh, those gardens dear and far, 
Where the wild wind-fairies are ! — 
Though we see not, we can hearken 
To them when the spring skies darken. 
Singing cleajjy, singing purely 
Songs of far-off Elf-land, surely. 
And they pluck the wild-wind posies, 
Lilies, violets, and roses, 



92 GARDEN SECRETS, 

Each to each the sweet buds flmging, 
Fostering, tending them, and singing. 
The sweet scent, like angels' pity, 
Finds us, even in the city, 
Where we, toiling, seek as treasures 
Dull earth's disenchanting pleasures. 
Oh, the gales, with wind-flowers laden. 
Flowers that no mortal maiden 

In her breast shall ever wear ! 
Flowers to wreathe Titania's hair, 
And to strew her happy way with. 
When she marries some wind-fay with ! 
O wind-gardens ! where such songs are, 
And of flowers such happy throngs are. 
Though your paths J may not see. 
Well I know how fair they be. 



ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 

TN my garden it is night-time, 

-*- But a still time and a bright time ; 

For the Moon rains down her splendor, 
And my garden feels the wonder 
Of the spell which it lies under 

In that light so soft and tender. 

While the Moon her watch is keeping. 
All the Blossoms here are sleeping, 
And the Roses sigh for dreaming 

Of the bees that love to love them 
When the warm sun shines above them 
And the butterflies pass gleaming. 

Could one follow Roses* fancies 
When the night the garden trances, 
Oh, what fair things we should chance on ! 
For to Lilies and to Roses, 
As to us, soft sleep discloses 
What the waking may not glance on. 



96 GARDEN SECRETS. 

But hark ! now across the moonlight, 
Through the warmness of the June night, 
From the tall Trees' listening branches, 
Comes the sound, sustained and holy, 
Of the passionate melancholy, 
Of a wound which singing stanches. 

Oh, the ecstasy of sorrow 
Which the music seems to borrow 
From the thought of some past lover 
Who loved vainly all his lifetime. 
Till death ended peace and strife-time, 
And the darkness clothed him over ! 

Oh, the passionate, sweet singing, 

Aching, gushing, throbbing, ringing. 

Dying in divine, soft closes. 

Recommencing, waxing stronger, 
Sweet notes, ever sweeter, longer. 

Till the singing wakes the Roses ! 

Quoth the Roses to the 'singer : 
" Oh, thou dearest music-bringer, 
Now our sleep so sweetly endeth. 

Tell us why thy song so sad seems. 
When the air is full of glad dreams. 
And the bright moon o'er us bendeth." 



ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 97 

Sang the Singer to the Roses : 

" Love for you my song discloses ; 

Hence the note of grief it borrows." 

Quoth the Roses : -^ Love means pleasure." 
Quoth the Singer : '^ Love's best measure 

Is its pure attendant sorrows." 



THY GARDEN. 



THY GARDEN. 



TTJURE moonlight in thy garden, sweet, to- 
-*- night, 

Pure moonlight in thy garden, and the breath 
Of fragrant roses. O my heart's delight ! 

Wed thou with Love, but I will wed with 
Death. 

Peace in thy garden, and the passionate song 
Of some last nightingale that sings in June ! 

Thy dreams with promises of love are strong, 
And all thy life is set to one sweet tune. 

Love wandering round thy garden, O My Sweet ! 

Love walking through thy garden in the night ; 
Far off I feel his wings, I hear his feet, 

I see the eyes that set the world alight. 



I02 GARDEN SECRETS. 

My sad heart in thy garden strays alone, 
My heart among all hearts companionless ; 

Between the roses and the lilies thrown, 
It finds thy garden but a wilderness. 

Great quiet in thy garden, now the song 
Of that last nightingale has died away ! . 

Here jangling city chimes the silence wrong, 
But in thy garden perfect rest has sway. 

Dawn in thy garden, with the faintest sound, — 
Uncertain, tremulous, awaking birds, — 

Dawn in thy garden, and from meadows round, 
The sudden lowing of expectant herds. 

Light in thy garden, faint and sweet and pure ; 

Dim noise of birds from every bush and tree ; 
Rumors of song the stars may not endure ; 

A rain that falls and ceases suddenly. 

Morn in thy garden, — bright and keen and 
strong ! 
Love calls thee, from thy garden, to awake ; 
Morn in thy garden, with the articulate song 
Of birds that sing for love and warm light's 
sake. 



THY GARDEN. IO3 



Wind in thy garden to-night, my Love, 
Wind in thy garden and rain ; 

A sound of storm in the shaken grove, 
And cries as of spirits in pain ! 

If there 's wind in thy garden outside. 
And troublous darkness, dear, 

What carest thou, an elected bride, 
And the bridal hour so near ? 

All things come to an end, my sweet, — 
Life, and the pleasure in living ; 

The years run swiftly with agile feet, 
The years that are taking and giving. 

Soon shalt thou have thy bliss supreme, 

And soon shall it pass away ; 
So turn thyself to thy rest and dream. 

Nor heed what the mad winds say. 

III. 

Snow in thy garden, falling thick and fast. 
Snow in thy garden, where the grass shall be ! 

What dreams to-night? Thy dreaming nights 
are past ; 
Thou hast no glad or grievous memory. 



104 GARDEN SECRETS. 

Love in thy garden bovveth down his head, 
His tears are falling on the wind-piled snow ; 

He takes no heed of life, now thou art dead, 
He recks not how the seasons come or go. 

Death in thy garden ! In the violent air 

That sweeps thy radiant garden thou art still ; 

For thee is no more rapture or despair, 

And Love and Death of thee have had their 
will. 

Night in thy garden, white with snow and sleet ; 

Night rushing on with wind and storm toward 
day,— 
Alas ! thy garden holdeth nothing sweet, 

Nor sweet can come again, and Thou away. 



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